


Pigeon Holes

by Nutkin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-07
Updated: 2012-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-30 18:08:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nutkin/pseuds/Nutkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jo's fucked two generations of Winchester men, and she still doesn't have them figured out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pigeon Holes

The dad came first.

There wasn't ever a lot of excitement at the Roadhouse, despite their type of customer. A lot of showboating and bragging, fish stories spun to epic proportions. _You should have seen the size of that thing, biggest son of a bitch you ever saw._ She nodded and smiled and poured shots to men haggard and cut on, bad teeth and skin burnt by wind and sun and a few cleansing fires gone awry.

When she was thirteen or fourteen, she drank up their stories like a sponge, always looking for some truths that could help her when she grew up to hunt. There couldn't be a better source than this one for every arcane bit of a knowledge that might come in handy out there on the road.

It was mostly bullshit, though, which she learned by age fifteen. These guys didn't want to school in her anything other than their john thomases; they wanted someone to impress, someone to applaud their victories, no matter how exaggerated and half-assed. Her job was to ooh and ahh and squeeze the proverbial bicep while they nursed their wounds and egos.

You learn a lot about the male psyche, working in a bar.

John wasn't any paragon of Christian fucking virtue, but he was a straight shooter in or out of a hunt. He might not have been a gentleman, but he didn't lie, and that was a start. 

She was a teenager then, sixteen-pushing-seventeen. Waiting tables for the late-night crowd in a denim skirt and peep-toes, 'cause that's been the recipe for good tips since man first walked upright and poured himself a shot of whiskey. 

He sat in a booth and only looked up from his table when she leaned right up against it, a bare and freshly-shaven knee nudging against his own.

And oh, he was handsome. She hadn't remembered that when she thought about gruff old John, her dad's friend who tugged her braids and always said, at least a couple times, he had boys her age. _Real nice boys, maybe someday you'll meet them._

He didn't talk about his kids that time, though. Not when she found him outside on her fifteen minute break and took the cigarette out of his hand and sucked a puff of some shit-awful tobacco between her lips. It was cold enough to make her nose feel drippy, but she didn't shiver, too warmed through by the dangerous possibility of the moment.

"You remember me?" he asked. 

She blew her smoke out the corner of her mouth, trying hard to seem careless.

"'Course I do," she answered, tucking the Winston back between his lips. Her nails were painted red to match the plaid in her blouse, and his whiskers were rough against her skin. "Uncle John."

It never occurred to her to ask why he'd stayed away so long, or why he wasn't looking for her mom.

She rode his cock in the cab of his truck. He was bigger than the boys she'd messed around with before, drove deeper and harder even when she was the one who was supposed to be in control. She had two braids twisted back from her temples, tied together to swing down over the rest of her hair, and he grabbed 'em and pulled until she moaned.

She said it again, quiet and shuddered, while a criminally practiced hand circled her clit. Rough fingers that knew their way around her cunt better, almost, than she did.

_Uncle John_. He didn't say anything when he came.

*

The son's not much different than his old man. His brother's got the dimples, but he's got the smirk and the flinty eyes that watch her like she's prey. The scruff on his chin could easily be more, rubbing red burns on her thighs and stomach.

It's not what she pictured when John told her he had kids; maybe she still imagined them the way she had back then, skinny boys who might run through the Nebraska fields with her. Not these clean lines of muscle and arrogance she could cut her fingers on. He's a different kind of man than his father was, drawn sharper and shallower all the way around.

He's an asshole of the highest order, though. Inherited that straight from the mother-fucking source. 

She can't stand his brand of bullshit; she's had the same thing flung at her by hunters with a lot more skins hanging from their belts than this one. He's too pretty and he knows it, and even that hangdog look of sadness he's trying to beat off doesn't sand the cocky edges. He's like a broken beer bottle: the good in him is too hard to get to for all the broken glass, and will probably drip through the floorboards by the time anyone figures out how.

He grows on her slow, like the taste of coffee. He doesn't ever stop pissing her off.

*

The other one finds her in Minnesota, and she's not so cold she doesn't feel the sharpness of tears behind her eyes when he gives it to her straight, or crooked, or whatever it might be coming from a demon. 

She didn't cry when they told her John was dead, but it doesn't seem right, this new twist. Doesn't seem right that what kept him away was cowardice, that after everything he still came back for that. For her. That's not the man she knew, though there are times when she's pretty sure not a soul under the heavens ever knew John Winchester.

Dean won't look her in the eye when he makes her goodbyes, still puts her in the corner like a little kid. Like he knows her at all, even a little bit.

"What do you remember about your dad?" is what she asked in Philly, when she had five minutes alone with him. "What's the first thing that pops into your head?"

He had spilled his memories out on the table for her and didn't even know why, but she knows now. He's hungry for that connection to something, anything. Trying so hard to find it in his brother that he can't help but hate himself when he finds it in anybody else. 

It's the same hunger she felt back in '02, made her jump for the chance of spreading her legs to a man three times her age.

*

First words out of her mouth next time are, "Heard you sold your soul," and he scowls.

He says, "The fuck are you doing here?" without waiting to hear the answer, and she lets one bubble up behind her lips anyway. Wouldn't do any good to spit it at him, she's gotten smarter than that in her old age, but it feels good to think it anyway. 

He's an arrogant bastard to still treat her like that after all she's lost, after all the shit the Winchester family has left on her doorstep. No father, no home, no best friend, and still asked to account for her personal interest in seeing this sorry fight through. 

She tilts her head to the side and smiles at his brother, nice and sunny, and turns to walk back into the house.

It's some funny kind of luck that when she was dumb and young she had the father, and now that she's pushing twenty-two she's stuck with this one. The sorriest, most emotionally stunted fucker to ever wield a gun.

The radio in Bobby's spare room is playing a tinny "Baby Love" when she pushes his shirt off his shoulders and he wraps an arm around her middle, hoists her up so her legs can wind round his waist. It feels different without her apron on, her barrier to the world, and he shoves her back up against a wall and slams his hand there next to her, muscles all twitching under the skin as he sucks on her bottom lip and shoves his tongue in deep.

He digs the wad of gum out from her cheek, a flash of pink between his front teeth before he spits it onto the floor.

"The fuck are you doing here?" he says again, but she's pretty sure he's asking himself. 

She can feel his cock through his jeans, hard like iron under her hand. He's just like his dad with that way he makes her body feel small up against his. The darkness in his eyes is the same brand of desperate, too, and that was a flip she called right; you can't unbreak anything fucked up that bad.

He screws her with her skirt still on, panties held aside by blunt fingers that don't know shit about her and her cunt.

"Rather fuck angry than not fuck at all," she answers for the both of them, and then his tongue is in her mouth again, sweet and rough. 

 

-fin.


End file.
